


Intricate Rituals

by butt_muncher_seven



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1, Bath Time, Geralt's self-esteem issues, Get Together, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Sleeping Together, and by played i mean travelled the countryside picking every flower, cutting hair, fellas is it gay to memorize every scar on your best friend's body?, getting just constantly attacked by wolves, honestly it was extremely hard to limit this to just 5, hopefully no random shifts in verb tense, jaskier being catty, jokes that make a lot more sense if you've played the game, just guys being dudes, just wolves everywhere, light handholding, nightmare time, oh no we're trapped in a small room, some made up bird names, whatever shall we do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22783645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butt_muncher_seven/pseuds/butt_muncher_seven
Summary: Five times Geralt and Jaskier get up close and physical for entirely normal, non-sexual reasons (because they are not attracted to each other) plus one.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 587





	Intricate Rituals

1.

Jaskier riffled through a dead bandit's pockets delicately, a grimace on his face.1

"Oh look, another man who didn't know about underwear, fantastic. What a splendid idea, Geralt, life certainly _has_ been getting too glamorous. I've just the thing though - let's _really_ dig around in the clothes of the very recently deceased.

"Would you rather they'd had time to decay?" Geralt asked him mildly, pocketing a handful of florens. Still no note explaining precisely _why_ they'd been stealing children from the surrounding villages, which was just their luck.

"I don't think it's unreasonable of me to mention how much I _really_ hate this part of your job, it's - oh hey, chicken sandwich!" He waved his prize aloft, pausing when he caught Geralt's frown. "I mean, yuck, a dead man's chicken sandwich. Wouldn't - wouldn't want to eat that."

Geralt stepped over the dead carefully to join him under a large apple tree.

"No, that's a good find." Geralt sniffed the sandwich experimentally. "Good mustard too."

Yennefer's lip curled in disgust.2

"Oh, Geralt, the horse -" Jaskier cried out.

Geralt spun and found Roach munching determinedly through groundfall apples.

"Agh, no, Roach -" Geralt pulled her huge horse head away from her own discovered treasure.

"You'll give yourself colic," he scolded gently, leading her several paces away. She snorted at him, trying half-heartedly to return to her snack, which in a half-ton beast still amounted to a good deal of force.

Geralt withstood it easily.

"Jaskier, can you hold Roach while I search the bandits?"

"I really, _really_ would prefer not to!" Jaskier called back.

"Yen?" 

Yennefer pursed her lips.

"Fine." She took hold of Roach's reins firmly.

They found the papers, in the end, and enough food between the bandits to make a proper meal of it. They sat beneath a large oak tree, enjoying their picnic. Geralt and Jaskier did, at least.

"Yen, I thought you were hungry." Geralt said, like a stupid little dog trailing a disinterested sorceress.

"I _am_ , I just don't want to eat _scavenged_ pastry."

"Oh, don't be like that. The dumplings are fresh, surely they weren't planning on eating poisoned food or anything." Jaskier cut in.

She sniffed.

"More for me then." Jaskier shrugged.

"There's _nothing_ here you want." Geralt asked insistently. 

"It's another eight hours to Novigrad." Jaskier chimed in.

"I will have an apple." She relented. "That one." 

They looked up to see one of the last nice apples on the tree. Its clean, unbroken skin practically glowed with health. It was not _impossibly_ out of reach, but it certainly wasn't close to hand. _The bitch._

Geralt sighed, though not as loudly as Jaskier wished he would.

"Jaskier, do you mind..?" 

"She's a grown woman, Geralt, she can get her own damn apple."

"Looks like he asked _you_ for help, though." Yennefer said, eyes wide and serious, and fuck her for knowing _exactly_ how to play on his jealousy.

Jaskier set his meat pie down with a silent curse and joined Geralt under the apple tree.

"Let me see your hands first, I don't want _more_ stains on my clothes."

Geralt offered his hands for inspection. They were quite clean, actually, large and capable. There was some dirt under his nails and his cuticle bed showed signs of persistent neglect, but this Jaskier could allow.

"Alright then, lift me up." 

Geralt placed his large, capable hands on Jaskier's waist and made to hoist him up, but Jaskier's doublet twisted and the boning on the corset section dug painfully into his ribs.

Jaskier squawked.

"Ow, no, put me down, you grabbed me wrong. You _always_ do this."

Geralt set him down lightly, looking apologetic.

"Here, just," Jaskier tossed his jacket aside airily, like he was so confident that undressing in front of Yennefer and Geralt wasn't even the slightest bit uncomfortable. "And don't pull my pants up, I'm not getting castrated so Yennefer can have a _fucking_ apple."

To his credit, Geralt didn't twitch, as though he too was so comfortable and intimate with his friend that touching him in his undergarments was normal and fine. Jaskier held his arms up so that Geralt could grab his waist again, _properly_ this time, and lift him. It was majestic. He felt like a Temerian _danceuse_ , as Geralt, weight centred firmly below him demonstrated a perfectly controlled lift to an awestruck crowd. _Eat your heart out Yen,_ he thought though - he still couldn't quite reach the apple. He stretched out harder, straining.

"Can you reach it?' Geralt asked from below, voice a little strained. 

"No, can you, I don't know - move closer?"

Jaskier swayed a bit as Geralt shuffled around.

"I feel like I'm lifting a baby up to see the queen." Geralt said, for absolutely no reason at all. 

Jaskier paused in total indignation.

"What!?" He demanded.

"Can you - reach harder?" Geralt asked, ignoring him, as usual. 

Geralt bounced up on his toes, briefly thrusting him higher upwards. 

"Almost!" Jaskier called, grabbing at the thinner branches that were getting in his face. Pulling them downwards, the apple bobbed just out of reach. He planted his heel against Geralt's chest, partly for balance and partly to leverage himself just a bit higher. It was so close..

Geralt grunted, heaving him upwards with a full hop. Jaskier could hear him panting properly now.

"Just - get - the - _fucking_ \- _apple._ " Geralt growled in between lifts.

Jaskier kept hold of his smaller branches, getting a face full of leaves all the same, stretching his arm out, so close he could actually touch the apple with his fingertips -

"Got it!" 

Geralt dropped him down with _an amount_ of care. His face was flushed, white hair in slight disarray. He brushed off his chest pointedly.

"Oh, don't be like that. Dirt wipes right off your leather, chestplate, thingy. Is this a breast plate?" Jaskier rubbed helpfully at the witcher's chest.

"Hm." He said, in a way that sounded like 'yes.' and handed him his doublet.

  
  


They returned to Yennefer, who was watching them with a mixture of concern and derision. 

"You did that in the weirdest _possible_ way, you have to know that." She sniggered helplessly. “What were you doing? Why didn't you just knock it down with, what's the one - _Aard_?"

"He tried it once, blew the whole apple to pulpy ruin." Jaskier said, annoyed.

“Works about the same on hornets’ nests.” Geralt added, intriguingly.

"Ah." She took a bite out of the hardwon apple. "Thank you, I suppose.”

Jaskier regretted not eating the damn thing the moment Geralt had set him on the ground.

2.

"Do you have any idea how - how often people lie to me?" 

Jaskier couldn't pick out what mood Geralt was in exactly. Pensive, perhaps? And drunk. Definitely drunk. Unlike Jaskier who was completely sober. Well, comparatively sober, anyhow.

"Do you know how rarely a monster is just a monster? It's never just "here's my dead wife please get revenge on the whatever that killed her," there's always some - some dark secret, some fucking.. affair they don't want to mention, or they were abusive, or it's just a normal murder and they want me to cover for them." He looked genuinely sad. "They always fucking think I'm going to lie for them. 'Just give him enough coin, and we'll say a werewolf did it!'" Geralt mimicked mockingly. He flopped back onto his bedroll.

"You need to write a song about that!" Geralt jabbed a finger at the sky to accentuate his point. "Stop _lying_ to your witcher and just tell him some facts. I will kill the stupid nekkers for you, I don't care that you stole those horses, just fuckin'.." He trailed off.

"Hmmm..” Jaskier thought about it. “You do kind of care though, I mean - you didn't get paid for the last hunt because the poster - postee? postman? wanted you to kill the ghost to cover the crime for something and then you killed him too."

Jaskier had sort of lost track of that one. There had been way too many people named Mikhail and at least three separate and wildly conflicting versions of everyone's stories. 

"He'd burned down an insane asylum. Who does that?!" Geralt was face down on the ground now, indignation muffled by his blankets. "You would've let him live?"

"No, no, I'm merely pointing out that telling you the truth isn't always in your employers' best interests."

"Hmm." Geralt twisted on his blanket just far enough so he could meet Jaskier's eye. The hem of his shirt lifted up revealing a large swath of scarred, muscled flank. It was a testament to how drunk and lonely he was that Jaskier wanted to bury his whole face in it. 

"Alright, write a song about that too. Two things." He held up two fingers in case Jaskier wasn't following. "Don't lie to your witcher, and don't do weird, fucked up shit all the time."

 _"Don't lie to your witcher, he's not a snitch-er…_ um. I don't know, what comes next? Don't do fucked up shit - shit-cher?" Jaskier tested it out a couple times. "I suppose it doesn't all need to rhyme.." 

He happened to glance over and noticed Geralt watching him with naked wonder on his face. Jaskier fumbled the next chord, discordant music briefly filling their little campsite.

"It's amazing how you just… do that," Geralt said, "It's.. You make a song out of nothing. A baker takes flour and eggs and sugar and makes a cake, the law of equivalent exchange is upheld - you just," Geralt fluttered a hand vaguely. " _Create_ something."

And for once Jaskier found himself at a loss for words. He got bored of people so quickly, quicksilver heart falling in and out of love on the tilt of a hat, the curve of a smile, but Geralt never ceased to be _interesting_. 

"I'm going to remember that, next time you're cranky and sober and trying to complain about my music. Geralt of Rivia is _impressed_ by my songwriting abilities. Make a note of it, universe!” Jaskier shouted at the sky.

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Since we’re being honest, witcher - how well do you like _Wolf in Winter_?” He demanded.

"Got bit by a wolf in winter once." Geralt said, gleefully ignoring Jaskier's question. "Actually I've been bit by wolves a bunch of times. You'd think coming from the 'wolf school' would make us friendlier but wolves do not respect the title."

"That's - that has a lot of lyrical potential actually, some really promising metaphor, but per my actual question - _how well do you like my song_ Wolf in Winter?"

Geralt’s lips twitched in a smile. “It’s like getting in a used bath when the water’s gone cold.”

“Unbelievable. I write the nicest things for you, and this is how I am repaid. I should have left you with the elves.” Jaskier stomped over and sat on his back none too gently.

"How about _Hero of the Black Gate?"_ He demanded, unrelenting. 

"Roach tells that story more accurately." Geralt said, voice a little strained. “Play the one about Yennefer, the one that other bard wrote.”

“Ohh ho ho, so _that’s_ how we’re going to be, is it?" He kicked at Geralt's ribs lightly with his heel. "If you don’t want any originals, how about _this_ little ditty I picked up in Velen, huh?

_I met a White Wolf in Vizima,_

_Whose prick was as big as a tree-ah_

_When he-_ ack, Geralt!”

The witcher leveraged himself up, tipping Jaskier over. He covered Jaskier’s mouth with his giant stupid hands, half pinning him to the ground. Jaskier, who’d had siblings, simply licked him. Geralt whipped his hand free and tried the safer tactic of half-lying on top of him so he couldn't catch his breath.

“Why are you like this?” He growled, apparently uncowed by Jaskier’s psychological tactics.

“I’m a delight and you know it.” 

"Hmm." Geralt closed his eyes.

"Geralt do not - _do not_ fall asleep like this, last time my back was a mess for a _week_!"

His captor scrubbed his face against Jaskier's chest and relaxed more pointedly. The bard shoved half-heartedly at his shoulder. He didn't expect it to do much good, and it didn't.

"You're extremely heavy, do you know this?"

Geralt responded by snoring, which _had_ to be fake, for sure, except he really was responding very little to Jaskier's prodding.

" _Fine_."

Jaskier nabbed Geralt's pillow, lying unused within arm's reach. He found Geralt's weight actually somewhat comforting, and it was certainly warmer. The ground was hard enough his back would probably be fine, or at least no worse off. 

3.

"Wow, you look.. " Jaskier gave his friend a disbelieving once over, not missing his mutinous expression. "Great."

"It's not that bad." 

"No, no, you've got a real.. quiet dignity about you." 

It was _absolutely_ that bad. Geralt's hair was half tied back, half short and fuzzy, like it'd been chewed off by a goat that got bored partway through. It did not help that his face was red and peeling.

"Did your barber mistake you for someone else? The man who fucked his sister, perhaps?"

"He had a palsy."

"Uh huh, uh huh, and the-" He gestured tactfully at his facial region.

"Accident with a grenade." Geralt gritted out between clenched teeth. 

"Sure, sure, happens to all of us. Well, this won't do at all. Looks like Jaskier to the rescue again - have you business in town?"

Geralt grunted in the affirmative. 

"Build the fire up a little more, I'll see what I can do about making you look less like a wyvern made love to your skull before you have to talk to anyone."

Geralt put up a strong front, but he had never been particularly difficult to coax into grooming. All Jaskier had to do was push him around a little and he'd sit; tug at his shirt and he'd take it off. He wondered if Yennefer knew that. She was smart and domineering, she'd probably figured it out, he thought. There was a new scar on Geralt’s shoulder since Jaskier had seen him last, a little pink thing still puffy with fresh scar tissue - in the shape of a puncture wound, perhaps.

"Bite mark?" He asked, lightly touching the scar.

"Hm." _Illustrative_.

The burn marks on his face ended more or less where his shirt collar did, though it too shared some strange form of heat damage.

"What was _in_ this grenade you fumbled?" Jaskier ran a comb through the disaster that was Geralt's hair. It seemed like the barber had simply hacked at his white hair with no particular goal in mind. It was a mercy Geralt hadn’t asked him for a shave; he’d have lost an eyebrow and half his nose. 

"I didn't _fumble_ it; I was trying a new recipe, didn't account for the wider blast radius." He protested. 

Jaskier tugged his head back and Geralt followed easily. He worked through the hair until it was wetted thoroughly. Jaskier could watch the tension easing out of Geralt’s incongruously open face. So strangely vulnerable, always so defensive and yet so open. He combed through a little longer than necessary, pleased to be pleasing his friend. 

Geralt's white hair was unsalvagably short under his left ear.

“Do you want to just go short? This will take ages to grow out evenly..” Jaskier couldn’t imagine the Witcher without his shoulder length white hair, but when needs must.. 

Geralt sighed, also displeased with the prospect.

“Maybe an undercut? I can salvage the top part, I think.” Jaskier added, “They’re all the rage in the north.”

Jaskier tried to read Geralt's face. He seemed _intrigued_ , at least, which was a good sign.

“Wouldn’t I look.. Like a student?” Geralt looked - out of his depth, he decided. A little lost.

Jaskier blessed the growing sense of tact that told him, in this moment, not to laugh. 

“I think you’d look quite stunning, actually. It’s after an old military style, and it would highlight your jawline.” He ran a finger along Geralt’s jaw. “You have an abundance of fine features to draw attention to, really. It’s almost unfair.”

Now Geralt seemed _confused._

“My eyes are ugly, though.” He said with some certainty.

Jaskier paused as he pulled Geralt’s hair into a ponytail. 

“Who told you that?” He said, very calmly, very conversational, inwardly burning with outrage. He felt torn between explaining in great detail how attractive his friend was and just kissing him until he understood Jaskier’s point. 

“They’re what everyone notices first.” Geralt shrugged. “The sign of a witcher. I’m not _meant_ to be attractive.”

“Geralt,” He said, dragging a razor carefully across the witcher’s scalp. “I’d be shocked if no one has told you this yet, but you are an extraordinarily attractive man.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously.

“I mean, people might have their own prejudices about witchers in _general_ , but you, specifically? The Hierarch himself would be forced to admit it upon seeing you. Might order paintings of your exquisite physique for himself to enjoy in private.”

Jaskier didn’t miss the pleased little smile he had, despite Geralt's derisive snort. 

The rest of his head was trimmed easily. When he tied Geralt’s hair back properly, he did allow himself to kiss Geralt quickly on the forehead. It was a normal enough gesture, he figured. 

He shook the cloth he’d hung about Geralt shoulders free of hair. Little pieces still clung to the witcher’s chest. Jaskier dusted him off as nonchalantly as he could, embarrassed to have done such a messy job. An extremely persistent strand of hair clung just above Geralt’s left nipple; and it swiftly became both too long to be picking at Geralt’s chest and too long spent picking at it to give up.

Ultimately it was Geralt who spared him the choice by batting his hand away and brushing himself clean, and - was he blushing? Jaskier certainly was.

He used digging around in his bag as an excuse to turn his back on Geralt, desperate to regain control of the situation. Why hadn’t he travelled with a barber's brush?

He didn't travel with much of anything, actually, which was why he had to source most of his supplies from Geralt. 

"Do you have any cream?" He asked, professionally.

"I've got some bear fat leftover."

"You have _bear_ fat? Leftover from _what_ \- nevermind, you know, I don't want to know."

"Leftover from a bear." Geralt said, like this was an obvious thing that people had.

"Well, I have some _clotted_ cream, that might work.. You seem to have approximately my body weight in white myrtle petals, do you have any aloe?"

Geralt grunted in the negative. He hadn't availed himself of the opportunity to put his shirt back on, which sure was.. something. Jaskier wasn't sure how he felt, actually.

"Well, I've got some chamomile oil, I can work with that. I wasn't _amazing_ at alchemy in university, but I did learn _a lot_ about herbalism from a classmate." He stirred some honey, chamomile oil, some celandine petals and the clotted cream filling of a tart he'd been saving into a slurry. 

"Mm. Just the hallucinogenic kind, or did you dabble in poisons as well?" Geralt asked, shirtless and _lounging_.

"I'm not quite sure what you're implying,” He replied delicately. “Skin care, mostly. And creativity.. Management. Now lie, uh, lie back against my lap." 

He had realized abruptly that he had no application strategy. He couldn't just ask his friend to lie in the dirt for 20 minutes while the mask set, and he wouldn't want his pillow all sticky, and admittedly he had panicked a bit.

His lap was not an ideal solution. But it certainly was the one he'd chosen. Out loud. 

Geralt, for his part, seemed to have no compunction about resting his head on Jaskier's legs. Which was a good sign, right? If _he_ wasn't uncomfortable, what did it matter? Jaskier got to business. 

As delicately as he could, Jaskier spread thick globs of his skin-soothing poultice over Geralt's face. He painted it with a gentle finger over his forehead, across his cheeks, his strong nose, his stronger jaw. Geralt closed his eyes, hands folded across his thick chest, for all the world looking like he was at rest. Only the steady, far too slow rise and fall of his chest indicated that he lived, something that had taken Jaskier a long while to get used to. The first night he spent sleeping in Geralt’s company had been a misery of _hey he hasn’t inhaled in a while oh lord he isn’t breathing do I need to do something_ before a gentle snore would end his suffering and begin the cycle anew. 

It was a peaceful moment. Late spring was turning into summer, the sun high in the sky. Crickets buzzed in the brush around them, birds chirped and danced across the fields of grain. Jaskier brushed a strand of hair off Getalt's mask-sticky face and felt happy.




Jaskier hung back. Yennefer had been betrayed, tied down ( _stupid, stupid_ ) and she was too old and too young yet for compromise. He saw Geralt angry, hurt, terrified, and he left before things get ugly. (With Geralt they're always ugly, a world never existed where Geralt is offered welcome without sacrifice, beauty without lies.)

The walk down the mountain was uncomfortable. Jaskier was surprised Geralt came with them at all, that he didn't just climb down the back face of the mountain out of sheer stubbornness. It was a testament, really, to how inaccessible the mountain was. Jaskier made conversation with the dwarves, after a fashion. They mostly grunted and swore and made plans for their dukedom, and Jaskier listened to Geralt kick rocks and break branches behind them. They weren't much better at telling tales than Geralt was, but he got the gist of it. His own version of the story was better anyhow.

The mood at the inn at least was properly celebratory. The people of the town had been dubious enough when they left, but they were willing to believe just about anything now. The dwarves were drinking like champions, generous as only the newly titled were. Jaskier was glad to have finished his song in time, and he reaped the rewards as the dwarves’ generosity trickled down through the commonfolk. He sang well and happily.

 _"Geralt cried "why that dragon, is as big as my wagon, but by glory this fight won't drag - onnnnnnnnnn""_ He sang, and the crowd went wild.

Jaskier was particularly pleased with that line. As his purely fictitious songs went, this one was especially moving. He thought he really captured the moment when Yarpen and Geralt had struck the killing blow at the same time, and then Geralt had ceded the victory out of honour and the witcher's code. (Yennefer didn't feature at all. This was wisdom, not cowardice.) The dwarves seemed happy enough to let this version of events stand, or perhaps they underestimated the power of a singable lie. The whole pub was singing it by the evening's end.

By the time he’d finished playing Geralt, weirdly, hadn't left yet. Jaskier kept an eye on him throughout the night, unsure how to gauge his mood. In the end, he could only wait so long. 

He opened with a pitcher of the house lager. Generous. Geralt was sitting alone - as usual no one has dared brave his glare. In a crowded pub, his table still had five empty chairs. _Enter Jaskier._

"Piss off, bard."

"Come now, none of that." Jaskier slid in next to Geralt, bumping his shoulder companionably. "We're blood brothers now, Yarpen said so."

"No he didn't."

"Well, he might have done. Sounds like something he'd say."

"Hm."

"I'm sorry about Yennefer."

"Hm."

"You know I'm here if you want to -"

"I don't want to talk about it."

They sat in silence. It might be meant as a companionable silence, but to Jaskier it felt awkward.

They were rescued by the entrance of the young boy who had been bussing tables all night. He looked trepidatious.

"Your bath is ready, master Bard, sir." He said, from several feet away.

"Splendid! Finally, an end to all this grit in my toes. Are you not coming, Geralt?"

Geralt's face was a stone mask of sullenness and stoicism, but he always had been tempted by a good bath. After an uncertain moment, he stood too.

Jaskier made sure to take the pitcher with them.

The inn was not a big one, but it was in Caingorn, and that meant that somewhere on the premises there would be a big stone basin full of hot water that a man could pay to sit in. It might even be clean water, if the man paid extra, and tonight Jaskier was rich enough to pay extra. (He was not rich enough to pay for laundry services, but then since nothing was really slain today they were all pretty clean. No one in the inn had noticed this.)

He swanned around Geralt, helping him out of his armour like he’d gotten used to doing before pulling off his own clothes.

"You're taking a bath too?" Geralt looked up from tugging on his boots to squint suspiciously at Jaskier. _Rude._

"It’s my money! And it's a big tub. You won't even notice I'm there."

It was a big tub - he’d slept in beds that were smaller, which is the first bit of good news he’s had all day. If he was feeling adventurous he bet he could fit a couple more people in. Jaskier tested the water and it was perfect - clean, fresh, and _just_ the right side of scalding. He sighed in anticipation.

But first - the scrubbing part. One couldn’t get _into_ the bath dirty. He was raised polite, and more to the point he didn’t want dirt in his soaking tub. So. He pulled a pail of (unheated) water from the scrubbing trough and dumped it over his head. _Fuck_ , it was cold. It was really only the alcohol he’d already consumed and the promise of a warm tub later that got him through. _Melitele’s tits_ , he missed the South. 

By the time he’d lathered up and rinsed off, Geralt had only progressed to sitting on a bathing stool staring sadly into a pail of water. It was a little pathetic, honestly, but it was nice to know that witchers struggled with breakups too. 

"Close your mouth." Jaskier ordered.

"Wha-" 

Jaskier dumped a bucket of water on Geralt's head. 

Geralt sputtered crankily, but Jaskier knew he meant "Thank you, Jaskier, for helping me through this, you’re a real friend."

“Here. Get started on your feet.” Jaskier hands Geralt his little tin of powdered soaproot. As mentioned, he was rich enough for baths but not laundry - enough for soaproot but not soap, ale but not wine, and _gods_ he needs to get another patron, and soon. Maybe the dwarves would sponsor his way into the Caringian court. 

“I can bathe myself.” Geralt said, utterly failing to demonstrate it. Jaskier rubbed his extremely nice shoulders to a lather, companionably. Then he soaped up Geralt’s arms, one after the other, pulling them out to the side like a masseuse, kneads soap into his palms. His arms, it turned out, were extremely nice too. It was only when he tried to scrub Geralt’s armpits that he got chased off. Well, he’d helped.

Convinced that Geralt is not about to slink off, now naked and half-sudsed, Jaskier got in the bath. It really was very nice. He groaned appreciatively to demonstrate how nice it was. 

"Water's getting cold." He reminded Geralt to hurry him up.

"That's because you never stoke the fire." Geralt grumbled.

He poked around helpfully under the tub, doing something to the fire that probably involved magic and decades of woodscraft. The water heated up splendidly.

"Oh, Geralt, that's _wonderful_." Jaskier moaned, really settling in to the tub. He closed his eyes, trying to really savour the moment.

"Hm." Geralt said, sounding more constipated than usual.

"Well? Get _in_ silly, they won't let us stay here forever." 

He cracked an eye in time to see Geralt chug his drink and pour himself another before grumpily climbing into the tub. Jaskier delicately averted his eyes until the water splashing had settled. There were rules to sharing a bath, after all. There was a moment of shuffling as they tried not to touch each other’s feet.

He observed Geralt through his lashes. He seemed _more_ relaxed, although there was clearly still a Yennefer-sized stick up his ass. _Probably not for the first time_ , he thought, snickering.

"Your legs are in the way." Geralt frowned at him.

"My legs are absolutely where they should be, _you're_ the one taking over the middle."

"That's not fair, you're shorter than me."

"We are practically the same height!"

"Only when your boots have heels."

"Hardly! Anyway, my legs are longer."

There was a brief but passionate struggle for the middleground, which ended when Jaskier braced his legs against the tub’s bottom and Geralt realized he couldn't dislodge him without a serious commitment to further violence and certain loss of water.

They subsided into an uneasy peace, Geralt resting his legs over Jaskier’s lap and Jaskier retaining the bottom. This was more leg contact than was strictly usual in a shared tub, but they were old friends. 

Jaskier reached for his pint and eyed Geralt suspiciously. He did not leverage the momentary distraction into further legroom - proof if he needed it that Geralt was an only child.

"What did you put in this bath?" Geralt wrinkled his nose unappreciatively, the barbarian. "Is that rosemary?"

"And orange. The last of my Nilfgardian blend." Jaskier sighed. "I hope our next stop has better merchants. Half the fun of being a bard is getting to spend other people's money on luxuries."

"Hm."

They lapsed again into silence, though this one was comfortable.

"You know, another thing Countess de Stael said - really, she was a tremendously wise woman, I mourn her loss every day - if you love something, you have to let it go."

" _What part of_ "I don't want to talk about it" _do you not understand_." Geralt glared at him.

"Fine, then. Pretend I'm Roach. I'll only interrupt to snort and sneak apples out of your hand."

"I don't have any apples."

"Then you will be safe from my giant teeth."

"I still don't want to talk about it."

Jaskier shook out his hair and made a passable horse-snort. Geralt sighed with irritation, tipping his head back against the lip of the tub. The Witcher sunk lower, his legs heavy in Jaskier's lap and encroaching brazenly on Jaskier's remaining third of the tub. 

"I never wanted to trap Yen," Geralt told the ceiling. "I thought she'd know that. But she's gone now, forever, because _I_ fucked it up, and I'll never meet anyone like her again."

Geralt went quiet for a little bit. Jaskier realized he would have to try much harder than anticipated to keep quiet.

"It's not - I don't think a djinn even _can_ make someone fall in love, at _most_ we were just.. destined to run into each other a lot. And I _liked_ her. A lot. She's so strong, and willful, and clever and beautiful, and just - _better_ than me."

Jaskier pressed his mouth to his forearm and made a tremendous farting noise.

"That's another thing Roach does." Jaskier said innocently. "Just trying to maintain the atmosphere."

Geralt glowered at him.

"Look, you'll find someone else. Someone better, even. Yennefer was.. she had a lot of her own issues to work through." He said diplomatically.

"Yennefer saved your life."

"Mmmm, well.. _You_ endangered my life, and then you saved her so that she’d save me and I think _ultimately_ we’re all even.”

Geralt looked at him flatly. “Roach doesn’t talk back this much.”

“True enough, she is a model bathing companion. But can she do this?” Jaskier pulled Geralt’s feet towards him and massaged the last of his orange blossom oil into them. He’d been reliably informed that he gives excellent foot rubs. Geralt grumbled something ( _ungrateful_ ) but the way he settled, tension bleeding out of his body, staying so so still like Jaskier would stop if he was startled, belied his enjoyment. The fracture between them felt _settled,_ somehow. 

  
  





When Geralt was twelve and recovering from the Trial, in bed and aching, all grief and new terror and the stinging afterburn of so, so much pain - he'd had a dream. It wasn't a _nightmare_ because it wasn't frightening - at the time he wasn't certain if he could still _be_ frightened (he could, he could, but it all tasted different now) - but it remained the worst dream he could remember having.

 _The room was burning and his mother, on her knees, bent over him, mouth twisted on a sob, face so filled with so much_ horror _and_ confusion _she was practically another woman, crying out "Your_ eyes _, baby, my baby,” Her hands fluttered towards him, reaching for his face “Who took your_ eyes _?"_

Every now and then it resurfaced, a dream of a remembered dream, the ghost of a ghost, haunting him gently. Then he’d wake up tasting bile, old anger and hurt twisting up in him like he hadn't closed that door years ago. 

It was unpleasant and it was strange and it was easy to wash away with a splash of water and some breakfast, a comforting nudge from Roach.

But this time was different - it felt _new_ again. The heavy air of the cursed wood brought out the worst in everything. It had kept him on edge and snappish all day and its effects had apparently crept into his dreams as well. The dream, his mother's face, her unwelcome cries - were all as fresh as the day he dreamt them.

He woke up shivering and miserable, sweat cooling unpleasantly in the night air, nausea crawling up his throat until he had to concentrate not to throw up. He sat up a little, focusing on the small campfire, still eating through the last log he'd left it. If he could just focus on the light, the bright little flicker, just block everything out, maybe that light could eclipse the darkness.

"Bad dreams?" Jaskier asked, and Geralt tried to hide how it startled him. 

He swallowed and nodded, not sure how to speak without all his thoughts spilling out of him.

"I've been having them too. A cursed forest - really, you take me to the nicest places." Jaskier's voice, sleep-thick and kind, pulled at something in his chest like a magnet drawing metal shavings. Some great longing, some unspecified _need_ filled his body. He wanted that brightness, that warmth to make him a part of it and never let him go. 

Jaskier looked at him curiously.

"So, I know _you're_ a big, scary witcher and nothing scares you, but _I'm_ fucking terrified and if you were to sleep a little closer to me I would certainly not object." He lifted the corner of his blanket invitingly. "Actually, I would be extraordinarily grateful."

And, oh, he _wanted_ to. The need identified a piece of itself more clearly - it wanted to be next to Jaskier, and it wanted to be next to Jaskier right now. He knew he probably shouldn’t. He wasn’t certain where this _thing_ with Jaskier stood, didn’t want to complicate it, but now he knew he wanted it Jaskier's offer became exceptionally difficult to resist. It was a testimony to how shaken Geralt felt that he didn't try particularly hard.

Geralt nodded.

Wordlessly he dragged his bedroll over to Jaskier. The bard's eyes widened as though he hadn't actually expected Geralt to agree, but he scrambled to make room eagerly enough, and he sighed pleasantly when Geralt spread his blanket over both of them.

He hadn’t noticed how cold he was until he felt the warmth of Jaskier's bed. The heat from the fire was a narrow glow compared to the all-enveloping warmth suffused through the blankets, radiating off Jaskier like a man-shaped furnace. Geralt curled eagerly into the heat. He rested his pounding head against Jaskier’s shoulder, proximity its own kind of relief. He smelled of perfume and walnut oil, a scent that was deeply comforting in its familiarity. 

"Oh, goodness, hello." Jaskier smiled at him, eyes softening. "I guess I shouldn't ask what horrors plague a witcher. Do you have your swords?"

Geralt huffed.

" _Obviously_ I still have my swords." He slid the first inch of his silver blade out from its scabbard, wrapped in a cloak to form his pillow (as always) to demonstrate. 

"Then I feel quite safe again." Jaskier declared, settling in and closing his eyes.

Geralt lay still, cheek pressed against Jaskier's shoulder, letting his heart rate settle down again. He felt his breathing slow alongside Jaskier's, counting four of Jaskier's breaths to one of his. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sound of his friend's breathing, the feeling of another's closeness.

Something screamed in the forest.

Geralt's eyes flew open. It was _probably_ an owl, and it was a considerable ways away, but he was already so on edge it rattled him more than it should. 

Jaskier clutched at his shirt, pulling very close to him.

"Geralt, what was that? Is it coming towards us?" He hissed.

"If it is, holding my shirt will only make it harder for me to kill it." Geralt replied drily, strangely pleased that he was not the only one affected.

"This is hardly the time for sarcasm." Jaskier reproached him, releasing his grip on Geralt's clothing. Geralt found that he regretted his comment.

"It's nothing. It's the wrong climate for wyverns and no other nocturnal monster screams like that. It's probably a baron owl, maybe a russet whiltopper." 

Jaskier still looked worried. Firelight glittered in his dark eyes, bright like jewels in the dark. He bit his lip anxiously.

"But how do you _know_?"

"Because I'm a professional. Here." Geralt took Jaskier's hand in his left hand. "I can still fight like this."

Jaskier gave him a smile so grateful and genuine that Geralt strangely found himself smiling back. In the faint light of the fire he could just see the hint of a blush blooming on the bard's cheeks. His eyes were like twin stars.

Jaskier fell asleep holding Geralt's hand, curling in towards him with the kind of easy trust Geralt had never understood. He spent a while longer listening attentively to the sounds of the forest and watching his friend's face in the firelight. Nothing disturbing caught his ear. The forest air was still oppressive, dark magic sunken into the very soil itself, but now it bothered him far less. His dream felt watered down and impotent, weak in the face of Jaskier's affection. 

When he slept, he felt warm and at peace.  
  
  


+1

He’d gotten a note, of all things, telling him to meet Jaskier by the north wall of Duchess de Villier’s main estate. When he arrived, Jaskier was on the roof of an outbuilding set against the wall.

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s face lit up when he saw him, and Geralt’s stomach did a weird flipping-thing at the sight. “I am very glad to see you.”

“Jaskier.” He thought for a moment. “How have you been?”

“As it happens, I _have_ gotten myself into a spot of trouble.” _Of course._

And then Jaskier slipped over the wall and disappeared into the Duchess de Villier’s back garden. Geralt sighed heavily and followed him. Gravel crunched under his feet as he caught up to Jaskier.

“Okay, so I need to get into the Countess’s son’s bedroom, but I absolutely _cannot_ be seen here by the Countess’s men.” Jaskier whispered seriously. 

Geralt felt very tired. “Do you, though?”

“There’s _no time_ to explain, honestly, just-” They stopped behind a garden wall while a trio of washerwomen walked past, chatting happily.

"Come on."

They marched quickly down an open arched hallway leading further into the house, if you could call it that. The Countess’s house was verging on a palace. The almost tasteless amount of marble and silk tapestry and imported flowers made Geralt’s teeth itch. Footsteps echoed ahead of them, the faint jingle of chainmail just audible to his heightened senses.

He shoved Jaskier abruptly into a blessedly open closet, dodging in after him. He managed to get the door shut just as the lone guard turned the corner. It was a tight squeeze. There was just enough room between shelves of household linens and the door for the two of them. By pressing his face to the frame of the door he could _just_ see through to the hallway beyond.

Jaskier cleared his throat quietly, and Geralt’s attention was snapped back to the tiny room he’s placed them in. He tried to focus on what was going on outside, but it now was impossible to really tap into his senses without being overwhelmed by Jaskier’s presence. The guard walked slowly down their hallway.

“Can you - breathe less?” He tried, struggling to think with Jaskier’s scent in his nostrils. Jaskier’s body was pressed up more or less completely against his, which was fine if they were sleeping or camping or just hanging out but he couldn’t afford to be completely wrapped up in Jaskier’s presence in a quasi-combat scenario. 

Jaskier’s chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath, pressing against him even closer. The guard ambled on down the hallway. Geralt mentally begged him to walk faster.

“Is this helping?” Jaskier squeezed out, trying to speak without letting out his breath. 

“ _No._ ” He said, feeling desperate. He tried very hard to ignore Jaskier panting quietly against his neck. It was not easy to do. Jaskier’s breath bloomed soft and warm on his skin. Geralt could picture the softness of his mouth, the shape it held as he hovered uncertainly over Geralt’s shoulder. His body was so warm and so, so close to his.

“What will happen if they catch you?” He whispered, a little desperate, weighing his options. 

“Oh, you know,” Jaskier said quietly, craning his neck to see as much of the hall as possible over Geralt’s shoulder through cracks in the door. Geralt wished he would stop shifting about so much. “A little torture, a little public humiliation, a spot of execution. Did you see the bodies on display at the town gates?”

Geralt had. It didn’t take a witcher’s training to know that they had died slowly and in agony. The guard stopped fifteen meters away from their pantry, talking with an unseen colleague. 

“They were accused of stealing one of the countess’s sheep.” 

“Hmm.”

“I stole a significant amount of her son’s jewelry.” _Fuck._

“ _Why?”_

“I didn’t _mean to._ ” Jaskier tilted his head back against the shelves, which got his face away from Geralt’s neck but had the unfortunate side effect of pressing his crotch more firmly against Geralt’s ass. This did not seem to bother him. “Things just got.. A little out of hand, and everyone was drinking _a lot_ , and sweet Melitele he was _gorgeous_ , he had this little mole on his cheek, you know? And we went back to my room and things got _a little interesting_..”

Geralt can’t hear this, not right now. Images of Jaskier bent over some Temerian fop, just dripping in jewelry are filling up his head. It doesn’t help that he knows exactly what Jaskier sounds like when he’s fucking, an inevitable byproduct of travelling with possibly the sluttiest man Geralt has ever known.

“I mean seriously Geralt, his mouth?”

“Please stop.” Geralt was very proud of how calm he sounded.

“Well, basically, he ran off in the morning before his armed escort could catch him again and he left behind _a lot_ of his jewelry and I think his mother believes he was robbed.” 

“Why couldn’t you just leave it somewhere nice and obvious to be found?”

“What if someone _did_ steal it? Or what if someone else gets blamed? We have to get it back to Guillaume directly!”

 _Guillaume_. Geralt hated him already. He even _sounded_ like a prick. 

“Why can’t the little lordling sort this out?” The guard was leaving, finally, but Geralt noticed with horror that the servant he’d been speaking to was laden down with linens much like the sort lining the shelves in the rat trap they were hiding in. She smiled and laughed and was headed very clearly towards them.

“ _Shit.”_ He cursed, trying to estimate how much clearance the closet doorway gave him to draw a sword. Jaskier seemed to have noticed their predicament as well.

“Oh _fuck_ , okay, I have another plan.” And before Geralt could blink he was forcing himself through the narrow, narrow space of their cupboard, squeezing sideways until he was more beside Geralt than behind him. He had made an awful racket, not that it really mattered now, and then he was pulling at Geralt to face him and -

Jaskier kissed him. Hard. Geralt would have startled backwards but there wasn’t anywhere to go, and Jaskier was still kissing him, mouth open, teeth bumping into his lip, and this wasn’t exactly the time or place but it wasn’t a terrible waste of the next fifteen seconds before they were discovered. Geralt caught Jaskier’s face in his hands and kissed him back, properly. His gut tightened as he pressed forward, Jaskier crowding out half of his senses. His soft skin beneath his fingers, his swallowed moans in Geralt’s ears, his scent - panic and lust and perfume - swirling thick around them. Jaskier slipped his tongue against Geralt’s, lips soft and so _fucking_ perfect and _of course_ he was good at this, _of course_ he knew how to move against Geralt, ride his thigh just a little bit, just enough to make Geralt fully aware of how _fucking_ badly he wanted this. Jaskier’s hands pulled rapidly at his clothes, untucking his shirt and pulling his collar askew and that seemed a little premature given that they were about to be discovered and - 

The cupboard door slammed open, and a startled maid dropped her laundry. “What the _fuck_ are you doing in here?”

“Oh, _goodness me,_ my dear lady, I am so sorry. You see-” Jaskier babbled at the woman, helping her pick up her laundry, blush high on his cheeks, every _inch_ the startled swain and - _ah._ Geralt understood, suddenly, what Jaskier’s plan was.

It was a terrible plan. The woman looked confused but in moments she would likely call the guard. Perhaps this sort of ruse worked with other minstrels, but no one stumbled on Geralt and assumed he was just a wayward youth. 

He drew his hand in a quick line and cast _Axii_. The woman tilted her head at him, expression suddenly vacant.

“Put this in the little lord’s bedroom and forget all about it.” He snatched the bag from Jaskier’s waist and poured a small fortune in gold and gems onto the woman’s armful of linens. A fresh rose dropped out of the bag as well, which didn’t help his mood. He covered it all with the last of the cloth she had dropped. 

“No, wait, Geralt - what are you doing?"

“What I should have done in the first place.” He said, dragging Jaskier with him towards the nearest exit. He felt _stupid_.

“I was _dealing_ with it.” The bard insisted, colour still high on his cheeks. Geralt ignored him. Near the estate gates they passed another guard but he took one look at the thunderous expression on Geralt’s face and made no move to stop them. Just as well. 

Geralt paused from a moment when they had passed out the side servant’s entrance and onto the drab streets of Merriken. Jaskier succeeded in finally tearing his collar free of Geralt’s grip. 

“How long will it take you to pack?” Geralt asked, keeping them moving. He had planned on staying in town a while longer, looking into a suspected haunting, but getting Jaskier safely out of the area took priority. He looked around suspiciously, searching for any signs of pursuit.

“I’m - look, Geralt, I’m sorry.” Jaskier said, oddly, and Geralt turned to look at him and oh, fuck, Jaskier was crying. Not outright bawling, but there were tears in his eyes and his voice was all high and strangled and he wouldn’t make eye contact with Geralt at all.

Time slowed like he was under attack, uselessly, because Geralt had no idea what to do.

“It was a stupid plan, you were right.” And oh, no, they were going to do this right out in the open, weren’t they. Jaskier was clearly on the verge of outright sobbing, faint tremble to his chin and everything. What should he do? _What should he do?_

Geralt lifted a gloved hand and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. It didn’t seem to help.

“I didn’t mean to make you kiss me,” And oh, god, he was just fully crying wasn’t he?

Geralt tentatively opened his arms for a hug, maybe, or something, and Jaskier leaned into him eagerly. He folded him into an uncertain embrace, a weird parody of how they’d been holding each other just minutes ago. Was that why he was upset? Geralt patted Jaskier’s head.

“It’s alright.” He said, casting about for the right thing to say. “I liked kissing you.”

People were looking at them curiously. None of them looked openly hostile, no more than usual anyways. Jaskier sniffled.

“Really?” He asked wetly.

“Yeah, it was - nice. You’re a good kisser.” It was easier to admit, somehow, with Jaskier sobbing into his jacket like this. Less embarrassing, anyhow.

“Oh. Okay.” Jaskier said into his chest. Maybe that had been a weird thing to say..

Jaskier pulled back a little so he could meet Geralt’s gaze. His eyes were so _blue_ , like the sky on a cloudless day, like the purest lapis stone. Geralt was so, _so_ fucked.

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No.” He said, because he was never any good at lying, and looking at Jaskier’s ridiculously beautiful face had always made him a certain kind of stupid.

“Oh.” Jaskier said, staring up at him like he was some kind of marvel, the air between them electric. He wanted to look at Jaskier forever, but - 

“We need to leave. Can you grab your things and meet me at the town entrance?”

Jaskier nodded, wiping his face on his sleeve. 

“Yeah, I can. Just-” He stepped back into Geralt’s space, telegraphing every movement. Geralt found himself holding his breath as Jaskier leaned in and kissed him, softly. He kissed him back, still not certain what this meant but deeply invested in finding out.

Jaskier stepped back from him, curious look on his face. He smiled.

“See you there, Geralt.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1Did you know that pockets weren't invented until the 18th century??? So this makes no sense!!! I couldn't think of a better joke though.  
> 2Yennefer isn't just portalling them there because Geralt canonically hates portals, but also because she kind of likes hanging out with them, even when Jaskier's there.
> 
> Follow me at kisses4roach.tumblr.com for more soft homoeroticism!


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